Letters and Bourbon
by Eric Strauss
Summary: Recovering from the death of a partner is never easy. But for Arthur Kirkland, the grieving process is sped along when Francis Bonnefoy becomes a spark of light in his gloomy existence.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a bit of an apology fic for someone, she knows who she is :-) Again, I'm sorry, and I hope you enjoy! The beginning is USUK, followed by Fruk._

_**WARNING**: **THIS IS NOT AN ENTIRELY HAPPY FIC. THERE IS CHARACTER DEATH IN THE BEGINNING AND A LOT OF REMORSE ON ARTHUR'S BEHALF. THERE IS A HAPPY ENDING, BUT SADNESS ALONG THE WAY.**_

_At least, there is in this first chapter._

* * *

_"Oh Artie, you're such a sissy. I can't believe I even like you. All tea and crocheting, ha!" _

_Alfred's tone was light and teasing, and for that reason, Arthur only flashed the most insanely smug smirk he could possibly offer in retaliation– he knew better than to take the American's words to heart. After having lived with Alfred for what felt like several months, he knew his lover sometimes only opened his mouth to deliberately start an argument. _

_"You're a bratty git, I don't know how it is that I tolerate you."_

_"Of course you tolerate me, I'm your hero!" The boyish, foolish grin he had fallen in love with made its appearance on Alfred's face despite his earlier mockery, and Arthur couldn't hold back a chuckle._

_"Of course you are. And from what exactly are you protecting me, oh strong hero?"_

_"I'm saving you from being a stuffy old man with fifty cats and bad cooking!" Strong hands found their way around Arthur's trim waist and brought him closer, thumbs stroking mischievously beneath the hemline of his shirt. _

_"My cooking is quite fine, thank you," Arthur retorted indignantly, refusing to be sidetracked from the topic at hand, even as he was being tugged insistently onto Alfred's lap and tucked into the bend of his arm. It really was his fault for not fighting against his hold... But then again, it's Alfred, he reminded himself before burying himself into the warmth of the other blond's chest. "And I would never have fifty cats, they reproduce ridiculously."_

_"In that case, I'm saving you from being a lonely old man with no love life and pretend unicorns," Alfred stated, just before capturing Arthur's lips into a tender kiss._

_Once they parted, Arthur brushed his nose against Alfred's and hummed under his breath. "Speak properly, dearest. Butchering the English language is most unflattering." _

_And from there, the argument ensued._

_._

_One thing Arthur had been taken by surprise to find was Alfred's astonishing self-restraint. Alfred was always tender in his caresses, treating him like a fragile porcelain doll that could be broken at any time. Whether making love or rough housing outside, his touches never became too jarring, and Arthur couldn't deny it was endearing to know the virile American cared enough to limit his impressive strength._

_Alfred's fingers were gently tracing delicate patterns onto the planes of Arthur's abdomen and teasing the pale pink nubs that stood out on his chest, tweaking and rubbing slowly. His touches were purposely baiting him, waiting for him to snap and beg for them to move faster and reach south. Painstakingly slowly, they crawled lower and lower, until Arthur couldn't suppress a gasp and rupturing jerk of his hips._

_Soft, breathy moans fell from his lips when Alfred finally touched him in the place he had been aching the most, taking his sweet time to drive him toward the edge. He could feel the shudders and shivers from the body undulating over his, could hear the slight hitches in Alfred's breath. _

_"A-Artie, your body... I love you so much, oh God..."_

_A sweet cry was stolen by Alfred's lips, but the second they moved, Arthur whimpered into his marked neck. "I love you too, A-Al..."_

_._

_"Don't step on–!" _

_Alfred froze in mid-stride, but the damage was already done. Arthur stared dejectedly at the crushed poppies, feeling the weeks of toil very literally crushed underfoot. _

_Alfred looked scared and apologetic. Smiling sheepishly, he offered Arthur the lemonade he had been sipping. "Sorry?"_

_"It was difficult to grow those flowers, Alfred." Pink in the face from both warmth and frustration, Arthur turned his freckled nose downward. "They were just beginning to look really nice too..."_

_A look of desperation crossed Alfred's expression and, jumping on the balls of his feet, he ran to find the remedy to the situation. "I know! We can water them back to life!" _

_Fetching the garden hose and switching on the water valve far too zealously, Alfred watched with horror as a blast of cold water completely missed the poppies and drenched Arthur instead. _

_A positively murderous glare was sent his way, and the garden hose fell limply from between his fingers. "Oops..."_

_Arthur stood slowly, stiffly crossed the length of the flower garden in easy, methodic strides, and stood glowering only inches away from Alfred's face. Alfred had never felt particularly threatened by the shorter, generally smaller Briton, but under that hard gaze, he had never felt more at risk._

_And then, Arthur laughed._

_Alfred watched incredulously as Arthur began to laugh loudly, chuckling until tears brimmed the corners of his eyes and fell onto his freckled cheeks. _

_After a good minute or so of laughing, Arthur straightened himself up and turned to Alfred with an explanation. "You looked so frightened, so genuinely worried... And then the water was so unexpected, that honestly, how did you not laugh?"_

_Dropping with a dexterity Alfred sometimes forgot he had, Arthur picked up the garden hose and sprayed Alfred liberally until the front of his shirt was soaked through. _

_"That's what you get, you dunce."_

_The competitive, playful gleam shone in Alfred's eyes, and he snatched the hose away from Arthur. "My turn!" _

_Squealing, Arthur turned to run, only to find himself sprayed from behind by chilly water. Laughter rang out in the flower garden, and Arthur later on found himself thinking that his silly poppies were certainly a worthy sacrifice._

_._

_"But Artie, I really want a pool table for the garage! Think about how cool it would be, baby! We can play together, makes bets on who's gonna win, invite people over to play with it... And of course, we could always do the dirty there." _

_The lewd statement was accompanied by a wink, and Arthur found himself rolling his eyes with an unimpressed snort. "Of all places, your mind would go there. Filthy lech. But I really don't see why we need one, you already have plenty of games and trash down there as it is."_

_"You always say you're willing to do anything for me!" Alfred's voice rose to the keening whine Arthur could never resist, but cracked in mid-sentence. Arthur chuckled and reciprocated by pressing a kiss to Alfred's pouty lower lip._

_"By that, I mean that I'm willing to allow you to do the cooking and turn a blind eye when you want to experiment with new tomfoolery. But I'm not willing to clutter my den with yet another table game. So sorry love, but no go."_

_"You win this round, evil Mr Fluffy Brows. At least, that's what you think."_

_"What?"_

_._

_"O-Ooh, Alfred, it's __**COOOLD**__." Foolish giggles emanated from Arthur's throat as Alfred_ _clumsily tried to lick the vodka from the hollow of his stomach. Doing body shots had been the American's idea, and Arthur couldn't say he didn't like the experience. _

_"M-My turn," he added, once Alfred sat up with a strangely satisfied expression. A straight shot of vodka was poured into Alfred's mouth, and Arthur tapped his lips sharply when he tried to swallow. "No, that's for me, idiot."_

_Tilting his face, Arthur brought his lips to Alfred's own, prying past his soft lips and delving into his delightfully alcoholic mouth. A soft moan sounded from both men, but their blood was too thinned to carry and hold an erection. Arthur pulled away contentedly after carrying away every last drop of the strong liquor, and he gave a dopey smile before his head fell with a thud onto the coffee table._

_"Hehe... We should totally l-like, do that more often." Punctuated by a hiccup, Alfred slurred from around the lip of his bottle and flashed a drunken grin toward his far worse-off partner. If Arthur survived his raging hangover the next day, they would most definitely do that again some time._

_._

_"So, how'd you enjoy dinner? Was their meat as good as mine?" _

_"Y-You!"_

_The sound of flesh smacking flesh resounded loudly in the car as Arthur slapped and shoved Alfred's shoulder. Alfred's laughter subdued the country music he had insisted on playing, much to Arthur's disappointment. So perhaps his hand wasn't quite as strong as he had hoped..._

_But he continued on regardless, as though his weak-willed slap had been effectual. "Don't be so crass, Alfred! Dinner was lovely, and I appreciate that you took the time to plan this out. I'm sure it was difficult to come across those reservations."_

_"It wasn't too hard, I guess. Besides, I'd do anything for you. I'm your hero, remember?"_

_In an unexpected display of sweetness, Alfred removed a hand from the steering wheel and took Arthur's hand into his grip. Smooth fingers rubbed nonsensical patterns onto the palm of his hand, and a gentle kiss was pressed to his fingertips. "I really do love you, y'know... And if you love me, maybe you'll keep an open mind about what I'm about to say..."_

_Arthur's stomach bubbled with excitement and anticipation. He didn't know what he was expecting, but after such a beautiful and fulfilling night, he was sure it wouldn't be anything_ _less than marvellous. "I can't promise anything, but I'll keep an open mind."_

_Alfred seemed to toy and struggle internally before finally meeting Arthur's gaze briefly. A strange, yet utterly pleasant feeling flooded Arthur's system. Alfred hesitated, before speaking cautiously, deliberately._

_"I know it may be a bit of a stretch... And I know you're a little against the idea, from what I've heard so far, not to mention we've only been living together for six months. And that we can't even go through the morning without arguing about what to eat for breakfast, or lunch and dinner for that matter..."_

_Alfred was rambling, and Arthur couldn't help but smile. His odd American really was delightful. And he was so genuinely nervous, anxious and unable to sit still in his seat... He hadn't seen Alfred that nervous since the beginning of their relationship, when he had fumbled awkwardly and asked to hold his hand. Perhaps he was going to ask something...?_

_"What are you trying to say, Alfred?" Arthur interrupted, before his lover could go off on another tangent. His heart was fluttering in his ribcage, and Arthur felt abruptly excited. "Just spit it out, dear." _

_Alfred flushed, before blurting out without finesse, "I think we should get a pool table!"_

_A droll look was delivered, and Arthur's lips curled to the side.__ "Again with this argument? Honesty Alfred, I said no just two weeks ago!"_

_"It's just that I really really really want this pool table! I promise Artie, I won't ask for anything else for the rest of the year! Pretty, pretty please, with crumbled Oreos on top? If you love me, you'll say yes baby!"_

_"You promised that you wouldn't ask for anything else if I got you that Roulette table two months ago, which I __**did**__. And I do love you darling, I just don't see why a pool table is neces– ALFRED, TRUCK!" _

_Bitter moments that would change the rest of Arthur's life stretched into an eternity as the sounds of screeching metal and breaking glass sounded in the air._

_._

_Screams and sobs tore themselves from Arthur's throat with wild abandon, ricocheting off the hospital walls in a manner that sent frightened looks from patients his way. But what did he care; they didn't know, they didn't know! Arthur shook his head in avid denial, despite the concussion already throbbing behind his eyes and the screaming protest of his broken collarbone. The limp figure atop the gurney was being wheeled away from him, and he could feel the sharp pinch of a sedating needle being stabbed into his arm. Muscular arms held him back from running after the gurney. _

_"No, no... Alfred... __**NO**__!"_

.

Despite the months that had passed and the countless times he tortured himself to sleep with the familiar memories, Arthur felt his eyes water the moment the first thoughts of Alfred slipped into his mind.

It was his fault that the energetic blond who had given new meaning to his life was no longer there. It was his fault for having insisted on attending the restaurant opening, for having told Alfred to hurry up with his meal so that they could leave early. If he were to have waited, to have let the grand opening slip by, Alfred wouldn't have been driving– he wouldn't have been crashed into by the eighteen wheeler on their ride back home to their flat.

Glaring past the sting in his red-rimmed eyes and downing the glass of bourbon in front of him with reckless ease, Arthur was entirely oblivious to his surroundings in the shady bar– perhaps not the wisest thing to do in a place such as the one he was in, but he did it all the same. It was almost becoming a dangerous habit, to the point where the very mention of a certain sandy-haired American sent him spiralling down a bottle of bourbon– Alfred's favourite drink. It seemed right, in a sick and twisted way, for Arthur to lose himself in the only drink Alfred would ever agree to sip.

Arthur watched in disgust as one if his tears fell into the amber liquid remaining at the bottom of his glass. Now he had ruined yet another thing. His life, his love life, his drink. His job was slowly slipping away by the day, his appearance was fucked, and whatever decency he had remaining to him all went down the gutter whenever there was a drink in his hand. Which meant always.

From the mirror above the bottles of Chardonnay and brandy, Arthur could see his own revolting reflection.

Red-rimmed eyes, thin cheeks streaked with old tear tracks, and frame nearly disgusting in all its bony glory. Alfred wouldn't have been able to recognise him as the mirthful, romantically idealistic, round-cheeked Englishman he had fallen in love with. Arthur knew he was falling apart slowly, and he knew he was appalling to look at, but he couldn't bring himself to care about anything past a bottle of fine liqueur he honestly could not afford. Bills were piling on his counter, his excruciatingly patient boss was demanding he return to work, and he hadn't eaten a proper meal in nearly six months, but Arthur still wasted what little tidings he had on booze.

Life was bleak, and Arthur felt himself sinking into a worse depression each and every day.

"Bartedner? Bartedner. I'll have one m-more, of this stuff."

The unimpressed bartender gave a curt shake of his tulip-shaped head and continued to rinse and wipe the glasses. "No. You're utterly piss-wasted, and I won't call you a cab like the last time. Sober up, kid."

A thick whine rose to the back of Arthur's throat, and he stood indignantly. "I-I am a paying customer, and I can drink however goddamn much I want to, thank very much you." Arthur swayed dangerously at the end of his slurred speech and began to slip off the counter he had been holding onto desperately for equilibrium.

Before his head hit the ground, a firm hand was supporting his back and another his elbow.

In a much less intoxicated state, Arthur would have flushed and apologised for being a nuisance. In his state of poisoning, he clung to the source of balance unknowingly. Slender fingers helped him stand upright, and a comfortingly solid figure beside his own helped him sit without slumping over the counter.

"Bartender, I think out little friend here needs a mug of coffee."

With a lapse of conscience, Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Eww. You're French. That's utterly repulsive."

Azure eyes that were not quite the same shade of baby blue as Alfred's, more glacier-like than sky, or perhaps ocean, blue, met Arthur's in surprise. Finely tended-to eyebrows met in the middle, and the French male seemed genuinely confused. "Repulsive?"

"Yuss. All you French frogs are the same, all _'oui oui baguette'_ this and '_Frenchy French honhonhon' _that."

"Not quite... And that is very unfair, _mon ami_; not all of us sound just like that! I like to think of my laughter as a bit more charming than that silly little stereotype."

"Oh, put a rag in it."

The mug of hot coffee was brought to the counter, and the rich scent of pure, black Sumatra blend infiltrated Arthur's nose. Taking it as black as it was, he took a sip of the bitter brew and closed his eyes. Images of Alfred swarmed his mind. When he opened them again, a concerned gaze met his own.

"Are you alright? You cannot hold your drinks very well, from what I could see. I think it is a good thing I intervened, yes?"

Blond hair, so silky and blond, it was pretty... Nowhere near as pretty as Alfred's darker, shorter locks with its unruly little flick, but pretty. It was long and very pale, much like a little girl's...

Arthur found himself staring at that blond hair as a stupid and slightly emotional reply fell from his tongue. "I can hold my drink very well, thank you very much. If you think you can come on in and just take advantage of me because I'm a _little_ less than sober, you're wrong. I have a boyfriend and he can kick your French a–"

Realisation struck before he could finish that threat, and Arthur's face fell. Tears would have started to wet his cheeks again, if his eyes were to have retained any moisture since his last sob.

Arthur was quick to cover his mistake. "Well, I had a boyfriend who would have kicked your French arse."

Understanding began to dawn in the stranger's eyes, and he nodded slowly. The insult lay either ignored or unheard. "A bad break up, I take it?"

"You know _nothing_! He wouldn't have broken up with me, you presumptuous frog, he's dead! He's dead." Arthur fell silent after his whispered repetition and stared unseeingly at a stain on the counter. "He died four months ago. Car accident. Fuck, why am I telling you this..."

A soothing hand touched his shoulder gently, and Arthur found himself more consoled by a kind stranger he had met five minutes prior than by the people who had known him all his life. Circles were rubbed onto his shoulder blade, and gentle fingers pressed into his skin at random intervals.

"I lost someone a while ago as well. My husband, Mathieu. He died of cancer two years ago. Spent his last few weeks paralysed in a wheelchair, unable to play hockey or make love."

Subdued, Arthur found himself nodding in empathy. It would be inconceivable for him to say he didn't understand and share in the feeling of losing a beloved. "I'm sorry for your loss."

A nod met his own. "And I am sorry for yours."

Sitting in silence, Arthur mellowing with every passing sip of the dark coffee and stranger taking sips of an expensive Merlot, they both seemed to meet an easy, amicable standstill Arthur hadn't shared with anybody since Alfred's death. It was enjoyable, really- a sense of normalcy in his dark life.

Conversation was soon prompted by the French 'frog,' as Arthur had called him earlier. "I typically introduce myself from the very beginning, but I don't believe I had the chance to do so. Francis Bonnefoy, artistic photographer."

Arthur shook with a hand steadier than it had been in months. "Arthur Kirkland, possibly former English Lit. professor."

"Possibly former? Ah, I suppose that is a story for another day. So tell me, Arthur. Would you possibly be interested in spending the day with me, away from this wretched little bar –_MERDE_, no offence, bartender– and seeing the world for what may be the first time in four months?"

As much as Arthur wanted to flip this Francis the bird and tell him to drop dead, preferably where nobody would find his corpse, Arthur found himself considering the offer. His life for those last four months had consisted of nothing but misery, little white pills, and sleep. His second home was the filthy bar. And now that someone was offering him the chance to be there alongside him on his venture to the outside world, he simply couldn't say no.

Arthur nodded slowly and, for the first time in four painful months, felt the slightest ghost of hope. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *

_Guys, please review! Reviews are love :'-)_


	2. Chapter 2

_For PastaInABox._

* * *

For the first time in four long months, Arthur saw the world again.

He had stepped outside on his walks to the bar, had interacted among people at Alfred's funeral and wake, but he hadn't truly _seen_ the world. He hadn't seen the opening of a shoe boutique where an old take-out restaurant had been, or noticed the remodelling of the downtown park. The happenings of New York City had all but gone by unnoticed...Actually, they did.

But there, bundled in a winter coat Francis had insisted he wear and walking alongside the Frenchman, he saw the world again. Even more than just seeing, he _lived_ again– after Francis had pulled and pleaded and cajoled him into doing so.

The evening was spent sampling different brews and blends at coffee shops, and window shopping on Francis' behalf. They sat on a bench in the downtown park and watched the pedestrians strolling leisurely down the uneven pavement, and they made up stories about the people they saw: the short woman screaming furiously into her cellular phone was a stern businesswoman who indulged in sado-masochism; the short man staring blankly at his empty sketchpad was an art professor, fired for starting a relationship with an undergraduate.

For once, Arthur managed to slip away from his gloomy thoughts and despondent little world without the help of liquor– Francis never allowed the silence to linger for too long, and didn't give Arthur the chance to fall into his little thoughts.

Sitting silently along the windows of a coffee shop they hadn't yet mooched samples off, with a properly paid-for mug of hot tea, Arthur gazed silently out the windows and watched the couples walking outside.

Hand in hand, young and foolishly in love, Arthur regarded the happy couples with burning resentment. They still had the person they cared about at their side. They didn't know what it felt like to have the person they loved torn away by bad luck and drunken drivers. They didn't know the feeling of life shattering and losing meaning, or of living without the person that was life itself.

Arthur's grip on the fragile teacup handle tightened. It wasn't fair. There was a good chance that half those couples would fall apart because of petty lies and cheating. But life didn't separate _them_, those petty, lying hook-ups, it separated people like Alfred and himself, and it left people like him bitter and grieving.

Arthur didn't realise just how tightly he was gripping his tea cup until the delicate cup cracked and shards of glass embedded into his palm. Francis let out a stream of rapid French and all eyes in the coffee shop turned to their table, but Arthur didn't feel the pain he should have felt, didn't panic at the sight of blood slowly trickling down his wrists and pooling into the curve of his palm.

Francis slammed down enough money to pay for the broken teacup and took urgent hold of Arthur's left wrist, the one that remained unhurt.

"We have to take you to an emergency room, it looks like you will need stitches," said Francis, inspecting his palm with a critical eye. "I do believe there is a hospital nearb–"

"–No. I don't need to go to the hospital," Arthur interrupted, snatching his hand away from Francis' grip and refusing to take another step forward. "I'm perfectly fine, there's no reason for me to go to an emergency room."

"Arthur, your palm is cut wide open." Francis used an infuriatingly patient voice, one that should be used on a slow child. Arthur grit his jaw.

"Then you can fix me yourself." Arthur raised his voice and stubbornly stood his ground. "I refuse to go to the hospital. If you try to force me to go, I will scream bloody murder."

Francis' lips tightened, but he nodded. "Fine. Follow me, we can go to my flat. I am sure I have a needle and thread somewhere."

Arthur shuddered at the thought of stitches – he already had countless scars over his arms, legs, and scalp from stitches — but nodded in agreement. Anything would be better than going to _that_ hospital. Arthur knew exactly which one Francis was going to take him to, because it was the only one in nearby vicinity– and he had sworn to never set foot in that hospital again.

.

"Voilà, here it is."

Arthur flinched and let out a pained gasp as the tweezers inside his open palm pinched onto the largest shard of glass. The tasteful throw pillow beneath his fingertips suffered the damage of being torn as Francis extracted the piece, moving it out slow inch by slow inch.

"Bloody hell, that stings."

Writhing on the love seat and holding back screams, Arthur clapped his remaining hand over his eyes to keep Francis from seeing the tears that burned at the rims of them. A dry sob was bit back, but when Francis held up the bloodied culprit, a tear spilled over.

"I suppose that was not too b– Oh _mon ami_, do not cry! I told you we should have gone to the hospital!"

A kind kiss was pressed to Arthur's fingertips, and Arthur swatted at Francis with his available hand. "Don't tell me what to do, you bugger, it only hurts because you didn't pull it out all at once! And I'm not crying, stupid wanker."

"Well I'm afraid to break it to you, but we still have to get through be stitches. So if that hurt you, prepare for the needle." Francis waved a threaded needle in the air, and Arthur's eyes widened to incredible proportions.

"There is no way in hell that I am going to let you stick a needle in me! Look for super stick glue or something, because I will not receive stitches under your hands!"

"But Arthur, you are the one who didn't want to go to the h-"

"GLUE."

With a resigned sigh and mutter about 'the insane English,' Francis left in search of crazy glue.

.

"Is there any particular reason you did not want to go to the hospital?"

Arthur refused to meet Francis' gaze or look away from the adhesive being carefully administered to his palm. "Alfred."

His one-word response said it all and was more than enough: all at once, Francis' eyes brightened and fell in understanding. The glue was tossed aside carelessly, once the wound was closed together, and the Frenchman curled into himself.

"He died there, didn't he?" Francis' voice was soft, gently prying, and Arthur found that for once, he wanted to speak about the incident.

"Floor 2, left wing, hall A. Right outside the surgical prep room. 11:58 PM," Arthur whispered, nodding and closing his eyes slowly. "He was in the driver's seat, so he got the worst of it. The doctors later on told me that if he were to have lived, his skin would be almost entirely composed of scar tissue from having so much glass and so many lacerations, and that he would have been paralysed due to damage of the spinal column. I wouldn't have cared, because I didn't love him for his appearances, but he would have been miserable." The tears began to fall, and Arthur's voice started to tremble and quake. "They told me that he was better off dead, that a happy person like him would become depressed from never being able to move again, but I miss him so much!"

Arthur's vision blurred and his chest constricted with each sob that ruptured his small frame. "I miss him so much! He's gone and I need him, but he isn't here!"

Arthur broke down and wept like a child, wrapping his arms around his chest desperately to keep himself from falling physically apart. "I loved him so much Francis, I loved him with every bit of my being, and that stupid drunk took him away from me!"

Arthur found himself crying into a firm chest, hair stroked by gentle fingers and tender, meaningless words being murmured into his ear. He continued to cry, and Francis never moved, not when Arthur started to hiccup loudly, and not when his tears created a considerably large stain on the front of his shirt, not until Arthur's loud weeping was reduced to soft, tired whimpers.

"Oh Arthur, I understand. Death is a cruel mistress, MON CHER, and nothing hurts more than having your other half ripped away from you. But you will heal, darling, because it is only natural to do so. You will smile again and you will laugh again. Perhaps it could be months from now, when a new lover presents himsel–"

"Did you ever get over your Matthew?" Arthur demanded, inexplicably angry at the mere thought of replacing Alfred.

A wounded look passed over Francis' face, and his eyes dulled noticeably. "Mathieu will always hold a special place in my heart. But did I get over him? Yes, I did. I no longer grieve, only because I know that one day we will meet again, and that he would have never wanted me to be miserable."

"Well congratulations, Francis, but frankly, I can't do that yet. Because... Because I just can't! I'm alone, and I have nothing now, okay?!" Arthur's lip quivered but stuck out stubbornly. "Maybe someday I'll be able to do that. But not yet."

Warm, delightfully welcoming arms pulled Arthur into an embrace he gratefully sank into. "You are not alone, cherí. I will help you, and I won't allow you to ruin yourself."

"'m not ruinin' myself."

A gentle kiss was brushed over the sealed gash on Arthur's palm. "If you insist. In that case, I will no longer allow you to drink yourself into oblivion."

Francis stood slowly and gently helped shift Arthur's body into a comfortable position atop the plush sofa. "You may spend the night here, _lapín_. It is late, and I can make sure you are alright in the morning. _Bonne nuit_."

With one last brush of his lips over Arthur's forehead, Francis left and Arthur was left alone to sleep in the foreign room.

The moment Francis stepped out of the room, the waterworks started once again. Arthur cried so much. He cried when he was hurt, he cried when he was in pain, he had cried when Francis was tending to his wounds with utmost care.

But now he cried because the ache in his chest began to outweight every other physical pain he had ever felt, just like it had been doing since the day Alfred left.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *

_A bit shorter than what I'd prefer, but I snuck in a little detail. The next chapter will be longer. _


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